


I’m Just Super Observant

by kaulayau



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Injury Recovery, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Shameless The Amazing Spider-Man References, Teen Crush, Trans Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 22:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaulayau/pseuds/kaulayau
Summary: I’m just kidding. I don’t care. Bye.





	I’m Just Super Observant

**Author's Note:**

> february ficlet day 2: character b can’t sleep
> 
> enjoy!

“Peter, why are you calling me at two in the morning?” This stupid — freaking — fucking boy. He’s got Michelle pacing around her room, knocking over books and souvenirs and stressing out. “Is it the Physics test? English 3 Quiz?” She checks her calendar, thumbtacked on her door. “It’s the second day of the month — did you forget where to inject your T-shot? Dude, it comes with an instruction packet — and the most I know about it is from _Trans Bodies, Trans Selves_ — wow, I need to read more—”

His voice comes crackling from the phone. “No, no, it’s none of that. I’m just.”

“Just what?”

“It’s —” he stops, breathing in sharp — “MJ, how do you about the Physics test? You’re not in my class.”

She’s rolling her eyes. Peter, come _on_. “Not important.” Michelle needs to stay still. “What’s the deal?”

“Um.”

“Tell me.” Dude.

He sounds like a wince. “It’s kind of weird.”

Michelle is fucking dead. “I think I’ve told you weirder things. Hurry up.”

“Well.”

“Go.”

“I guess I can’t sleep? I think,” is what he says.

She never signed up for this. “Oh. Okay. So. What do you want me to do? Sing for you?”

“That might be nice.” Michelle hears him move through the speaker. He yelps, just a bit.

“I‘d make an awesome comeback, but, uh, Peter? You okay over there?”

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “And also, by the way, I just did a mission — like a…” His voice lowers to a whisper. “Spider-Man thing? You know? I’m pooped, but I can’t sleep still.”

Jesus Christ. Michelle forgot about all that business — like, the way he revealed it to her was so fucking rushed — in her room after dinner with her fucking family? What the fuck, man — she’s pissed off at him at this moment — but still. “Okay?” Pissed. “Avengers-mandated, I’m guessing?”

“Uh, no,” he coughs. “It was kind of… not. It was kind of non-adult supervised. And then. Like. Stuff went down. Got ‘em good, you know, but like. I’m. Like.” 

Great. “Then what’s —” Wait. Wait a minute. “Oh, my God. Peter, are you _hurt_?”

He’s hesitating. “No.”

Stupid boy stupid boy stupid boy. “I’m coming over. Okay? Stay put.”

“Please don’t come over. I know you’re gonna. Please don’t.”

“ _Stay put_.”

* * *

 That’s gross. That’s so, so gross, that gash bisecting the scar on his chest and scraping his side — Jesus. How can he even — how does he — she doesn’t understand this superhero shit. Look at that. Look at it, oh, God, it’s terrible.

“You shouldn’t have come over, Jay.” He’s so fucking clueless. So fucking embarrassed.

Can he move? Can he breathe? “Uh, yeah, I had to. Don’t say things like that.” She drops her things on his cluttered floor. “I’m gonna look for a washcloth, don’t move.”

* * *

 He whimpers every time she touches the towels to his skin. Like, fuck. Michelle is a fucking junior. The only medical training she has is Science Bowl. She’s trying not to gag. “Where’s Aunt May?” She doesn’t really know what to do, but she's doing something. ”Why didn’t you call Ned?”

“They’ve been busy, so they’re getting their sleep,” Peter says, laid out on the bottom bunk of his bed. “I don’t want to bother them. I don’t want to bother — you.”

She’s so done. “Uh. Yes, you do, because — Peter, this looks serious.” She doesn’t want him to die she doesn’t want him to die. Michelle thinks this situation isn’t in her skill pool. “You need to tell someone that’s —” no, not a licensed professional, that might not end well — “ _helpful_ and trustworthy.”

He tries to shrug, but his range of motion seems to have been cut off. “I told you.” And his face goes red.

Sweet, amazing, stupid boy.

Peter gets quiet. Considering. He looks like he got left behind at the grocery store. 

Fuck.

Michelle needs to shake this off of her.

Theyre staring at each other. They’re staring at each other. When are they going to stop staring at each other.

Okay.

Fucking — awkward.

Hesitantly, she lifts the towel off of him, and nothing explodes. How is she going to recover from this. “Um. You kind of didn’t. I asked you if you were hurt, and you said no. I remember very clearly.”

“Did you walk here?” he has the gall to ask. Is he not even going to acknowledge what she just said, or, like, what.

“Yes,” she somehow has the mental capacity to answer.

And now he’s all concerned. “MJ, you shouldn’t have. What if you got hurt?”

“Oh, my God.”

“New York is really dangerous at night.”

Is he for real? “Fighting crime without adult supervision is really dangerous — all the time.”

He has puppy-dog eyes on him. This is some sick joke. “It wasn’t on purpose —”

“I hate you so much.” She put all her loathing into it. All her stress. And he shuts up. 

* * *

 They’ve run out of things to talk about, and they’ve already dressed his fucking wound with ACE tape and leftover gauze— like, literally, one pull and Michelle could only get like, negative six centimeters of bandages — he says he’ll be fine and when he uses that voice on her she believes him — so they’re watching TV shows on Peter’s phone.

It’s four o’clock. Tomorrow’s Tuesday.

“Jay?” He sounds drunk and drowsy.

“Hmm?”

“I’m really sorry.” 

It’s too early for this. Late for this. But she’ll take it. “Oh, you shouldn’t be. Really, I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m glad to — be with you.” And his stupid beautiful face lights up like Times Square. Maybe he’s extra tired. “Don’t get too cocky.”


End file.
